


Black Sheep

by irrelevant



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon-Based AU, Logia, M/M, Son of a D, Where There's Smoke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where Ace is undercover Marine Intelligence and Smoker is his superior officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> written ages and ages ago for a prompt on the op_fanforall

The seastone cuffs hang heavy off his ankles and wrists, and every piece of him hurts like hell. His knife is gone, his shorts are ripped, and damn it, he’s lost his hat.

Freaking Blackbeard wouldn’t go look for it either. Bastard. And while Ace is on the subject of Blackbeard, if there’s anything worse than sharing space with Teach and his band of merry morons, Ace hasn’t run across it yet. He’s kind of hoping he never does. The last two weeks have been a suckfest of monumental proportions. All Ace wants right now is a bath, a bed, and a well-stocked fridge for when he wakes up.

Oh and a shave, since what with the seastone and all, he can’t burn his stubble off. Of course, freaking Blackbeard wouldn’t let him near a razor. Bastard.

So yeah, life could get a whole lot better than it is, but you know? Ace isn’t quite as pissed off now as he was when Teach’s freaks first dragged him into this room. Because the look on dear old granddad’s face when Ace walked through the door of Garp’s office in chains is something Ace is going to treasure forever and ever, amen. The cigar falling out of Garp’s mouth and setting his desk on fire was a nice touch. Now there’s a memory to keep a guy warm.

“YOU, YOU AND YOU, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE! AND YOU! AND YOU! YOU TOO! NO, NOT YOU!”

The door closes behind Teach and his lieutenants, and several marine enlisteds as well. Garp swings back around to face Ace, glaring. “You…you…you get those piece of shit cuffs the hell off you and sit down right now if you know what’s good for you!”

“Sorry, old man, no can do,” Ace says mildly.

“Why the fuck not?!”

“Um, excuse me, Vice Admiral?”

“What?!”

“They’re, um, seastone, sir. And isn’t Portgas-san a logia?” says a pink-haired kid with glasses. He smiles, half nervous, half apologetic, and Ace grins back.

“Got it in one,” he says cheerfully. “Hey old man—got a skeleton universal lying around somewhere?”

Garp is looking pretty red by now (and his desk is looking pretty sooty and wet from where they put the fire out), but he produces a key shaped like a leg bone and hands it to Pinky.

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on,” Garp demands, “and what the hell you think you’re doing showing up here with one of Sengoku’s pet Shichibukai?”

“Didn’t know he was. I thought... oh _yeah_. That’s more like it.”

Ace stops talking as the last of the seastone falls away. For an endless shard of time there’s nothing but him and the fire roaring through his veins, healing the lingering remnants of his battle with Teach. When he opens his eyes, Garp and his two protégées are staring.

“Boy.” Garp actually seems to hesitate. “All right?” he asks.

Ace shakes his head, laughing. “Don’t get all mushy on me, old man. It doesn’t suit you. I just need sleep and food and I’ll be annoying the piss out of you like always.”

“Like you ever stopped,” Garp mutters. He shifts the sodden piles of paper on his desk. “Well. Debriefing tomorrow, nine-hundred. Right here. Be on time, or—”

“Or you’ll beat my fool head in,” Ace finishes. “I got you.”

“Report to Mercer—he’ll bunk you in,” Garp says gruffly, then to his two officers: “WHY IS THIS SHIT STILL HERE?! CLEAN IT UP!”

In the ensuing rush of orders being followed, Ace makes it to the door unmolested. He pauses there and looks back at his grandfather. “Oi.”

“The fuck do you want now?” Garp growls around the cigar he’s lighting.

“Nothing much. Just thought I saw the Great White Bastard’s crew down at the docks.”

“Yeah, Smoker’s in port,” Garp turns a suspicious eye on Ace. “Why the hell do you care?”

Ace’s smile is slow and mean and up to no good. “No reason. I'm gone... catch you at the debrief.”

He closes the door on Garp’s scowl, tucks his hands into the tattered pockets of his shorts and strolls down the hall, stopping once to hold a door for a uniformed PA carrying a pile of file folders almost as tall as she is. She flushes and stammers thanks, then scurries off. Ace follows slowly in her footsteps. Feels good to stretch his legs. It feels good to feel like himself again.

He makes it down two flights of stairs to the main desk without incident, exchanging a smile and a polite greeting with the pretty female officer behind the desk and lifting a hand in response to the door guards’ salute as he goes by. Technically he ranks as a lieutenant, but he’s black ops and that puts him way out of most officers’ jurisdiction, whatever their rank. And most of these guys know it.

Some days it’s good to be him. This is definitely one of them.

When he reaches HQ’s main exit he hesitates. He could do as Garp ‘suggested’ and find the barracks and a bed, but…

He looks toward the harbor. And grins.

He’s been under seastone lock and key for half a month. He’s got a ball of fire and fury in his gut that has get out one way or another. If he's going to do it he might as well do it right. Sleep can wait. Food can wait. His fire can’t.

Ace turns his steps in the harbor's direction. He breathes in sunlight and sea and wind, sucking deep gulps of right here, right now into his freedom-starved lungs. Somehow, he’s not at all surprised that freedom smells like smoke.

\--

It’s all about patience. About balance and concentration. And steady hands.

click

His hands are steady. He’s working on patience.

……click

His concentration is shot.

“Afternoon, Commodore.”

thudthudthudthudthudthud… thud.

Smoker studies the pile of stones that a few seconds ago was a tower of stones. Only seven this time. Damn it.

“Sorry about that,” says the source of Smoker’s shitty concentration. “I do hate to interrupt a man when he’s playing with his rocks.”

Slowly, Smoker turns his head.

Portgas looks like shit, but that’s to be expected if the garbled reports Smoker’s been receiving concerning a battle between logia on Banaro Island are true. Since that son of a bitch Teach is moored two docks down from Smoker, rumor’s probably got it right for once. Which still doesn’t explain why Portgas is walking around free as a bird.

“What are you doing here? You were on indefinite assignment the last I heard.”

A bare shoulder lifts. “Not like I had much choice. Seastone is the suck, old man. Kill it with fire.”

Leaving the spilled stones in their pile, Smoker stands, pushing his chair back. He grabs the handle of his jitte where it leans against his desk. “I carry that suck, kid.”

“Yeah, and you’re certifiable. So what?”

Smoker rounds his desk, crossing the room in measured steps to stand in front of Portgas. He leans in, going for intimidation; knows there’s not a chance of it working—not this century. “What do you want?”

“If you don’t know that, you’re looking at a demotion on account of too much stupid.” Portgas bares his teeth—it’s not a smile. He tips his hatless head back, his eyes never leaving Smoker’s. “And yeah, you’re pretty much an all round bastard, but you’ve never struck me as stupid.”

Smoker knows better than to give in to Portgas’ adolescent taunting. It’s the middle of the day and this whole island is one big naval installation. Unlike Portgas Smoker knows how to exercise self-control, and he’s going to exercise it right now by turning his back and walking out the door.

“Never struck me as chickenshit, either,” the voice of Smoker’s nonexistent concentration calls.

Contrary to popular belief, Smoker has good-sized stores of patience and inner balance. And the ability to focus. Somewhere.

Maybe after he kicks Portgas into next year he’ll remember where the hell he put them.

\--

“Chief Petty Officer Jenks reporting for duty, sir!” says the young, too-eager marine.

Tashigi gives the boy a cursory once over, taking in the spit-and-polish shine and a distinct air of keen. Is the Academy taking them younger these days, or is she just getting older? This one looks sixteen at the most.

According to the file in Tashigi’s hands, Jenks (Henry, L.) is twenty-four, a year older than herself. He’s a few ranks below her, and a few thousand leagues behind her in experience. He’s never been stationed away from HQ, and now he’s been assigned to Smoker’s ship.

Tashigi looks from pristine paperwork to the shiny man-boy in front of her. She wonders how long this one will last. Their last communications officer jumped ship four islands back after a run-in with a devil fruit user who exuded a mucous-like substance from his pores. Although Tashigi will never forgive Warrant Officer Spiker for deserting, she does hope he eventually finds some way to get the viscous stuff off, because yuck.

As for this kid, time will tell what he’s made of. Tashigi doesn’t believe in judging books by their covers, not after Roronoa, but… well. She’ll just have to hope Jenks has a mucous free future ahead of him.

“At ease,” she says, and isn’t surprised when the boy drops immediately into parade rest. Oh well, a few weeks on this crew will put a stop to that sort of thing. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the ship. The officer on deck will show you your locker and berth, and the comm station.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir!”

Goodness. Had she ever been that young?

Greenie in tow, Tashigi signs out for both herself and Jenks at HQ’s main desk and heads for the docks. Even though she knows she’ll forget she put them there in a minute or less, she pushes her glasses to the top of her head and rubs aching eyes. She’s been up for over twenty-four hours. They docked with a full brig plus two cabins’-worth of pirates, and the paperwork and headaches that come with collected bounties fall squarely in her lap for the most part.

The only thing that’s kept her going is the knowledge that her commanding officer hasn’t slept in forty-eight, and isn’t likely to see his berth any time soon.

Smoker hasn’t been easy to live with for the last few weeks. Not since… just not since. Since that thing on the thing with the other thing. The one they don’t talk about. The one that starts with a P and ends in an S.

After three years under his command, Tashigi knows Smoker better than he thinks. And she knows that in Smoker land surly silence plus unnecessary growling plus a tendency towards bad words equals worried. She understands—really, she does. He won’t admit his worry, not even to himself, which translates into venting on whoever’s closest. She just wishes whoever wasn’t usually her.

In front of her, Jenks stops walking so suddenly that Tashigi nearly trips over him. “Um, Ensign? What’s—”

Tashigi gropes for her glasses—still there—and untangles her legs from Shigure’s sheath, and then it’s a few seconds before she understands what Jenks is asking. She feels it before she hears it. And she hears it before she sees it. It starts as a tremor under her feet that builds its way up her legs until she feels like her heart is vibrating inside her chest.

The ground shakes. A nearby row of windows shatter. The harbor boils, and a sheet of flame roars skyward, covering the horizon like a second dawn. Smoke comes after, of course it does, mushrooming up, muffling fire’s sullen glow. Red and white spiral together, struggling for dominance.

Ash billows outwards, blanketing the sky; fire pulses, resistant, and then the whole seething mess just… explodes.

 _Finally._

A strangled croak originates from somewhere off to the right. Tashigi remembers Jenks. She turns and smiles at him. “Did you say something, Chief Petty Officer?”

His mouth opens and closes, and opens again, “I—that—what—”

“Welcome to the Grand Line,” Tashigi says, nudging him towards the ship. She stands at the foot of the gangway, waiting until Jenks is safely aboard before following in his steps. She knows she’s going to trip on the way up, and she’d rather not have an audience.

She’s at the gunwale when another series of explosions rocks the harbor. She grabs a hold and glances at the conflagration overhead, doing her best to stay upright. And she smiles, just a little. The lieutenant must have needed this very badly if even half the rumors coming out of Banaro are correct. Smoker certainly does. Nanohana was the last time they had the opportunity, and that was almost half a year ago.

Tashigi settles her glasses on her nose and turns her weary feet toward her cabin. A hot shower and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep are what _she_ needs most. The former is hers for the taking. The latter—hmn. Probably not. Five hours, tops. Six if she’s lucky.

Well, she’ll take what she can get. Five hours is better than the nothing she’s running on now, and besides, as of tomorrow morning, Smoker’s going to be a lot easier to handle.

\--

Cold of any kind doesn’t bother Ace, so long as he’s not decked out in seastone jewellery. Chilly weather, surfaces, food—none of them has ever affected him. He can sleep through a blizzard with every door, window or port open, as he on one notable occasion discovered. On the other hand, he does sometimes notice abrupt drops in temperature. Say, for instance, when his nice warm pillow has just dumped him onto a not-warm pillow and emancipated itself.

Raising himself up on his elbow, Ace scrubs the sleep from his eyes and blinks away a dazzle of lamplight. His missing pillow is seated behind a solid-looking mahogany desk, scowling at the newspaper spread open across the desktop. Smoke trails lazily upwards from the pair of cigars lying abandoned in an overflowing ashtray.

Ace glances at the starboard porthole. It is way too dark for this shit. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“What do you think?”

Ace yawns, a jaw-cracking effort, and sits the rest of the way up, sheets pooling in his lap. “Well, I don’t think anything is. Others have been known to disagree. Obviously,” he yawns again.

Smoker doesn’t look up. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. It's the REM conditioning. If there’s nothing going down, I’ll sleep eight solid. Otherwise,” he shrugs the sheet off and slides naked from the berth, “I’m up for good.”

Ace circles the desk and leans over Smoker’s shoulder, bracing his hands on the back Smoker’s chair. “You should stop reading the paper, old man. Nothing but gloom and doom. The funnies are the only thing worth the trou—”

His voice trails off and he freezes in place, hands gripping the chair-back as he stares at the newspaper’s headline in consternation. “The hell I am!”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Smoker says. “I’ve known you almost four years and I still don’t know what the hell you are.”

“For one, I’m not in Impel Down!” Ace says indignantly. “What do they think they’re trying to pull?”

“Your ass out of the fire you made, probably.”

“It’s my ass,” Ace jerks the paper from Smoker’s hands and tosses it on the desk. “If I say it’s okay then it’s okay,” he growls, edging past the desk and throwing a leg across Smoker’s thighs, and it’s

godsogood. so good.

(this)

Smoker’s mouth, hot and demanding against Ace’s neck. His hands, curling over and around, cupping Ace’s hip and ass. Ace grabs handfuls of white-grey hair, presses himself tighter against Smoker. He doesn’t want even a millimeter of space between them, and fuck he wants _wantswantswants_

“Breathe, idiot,” Smoker’s voice vibrates the skin of his throat, and Ace realizes that he isn’t. Breathing.

The backed-up air in his lungs streams out of him in a rush. He rests his forehead on Smoker’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“They’re just covering their asses. And yours."

Ace shuts his eyes, mumbles, “If my cover’s not blown, it’s as good as. Teach will figure it out, and then he’ll sell me to Whitebeard for the price of a pint.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s Shichibukai.”

“Sengoku’s never reined the bastards in before. Why would he now?” Ace knows he sounds bitter, and he is. But no more so than any other govie.

“After your brother tap danced through Enies Lobby, Aokiji officially disbanded the Ninth Pol.” Smoker sounds almost contemplative. Ace’s small corner of the universe goes very still.

“And?”

Something that might be the vestige of a smile twitches the corners of Smoker’s mouth. “And nothing.”

Ace tightens his grip on Smoker’s shoulders until he feels bone creak under his hands. “Tell me what you know, old man, or I torch this dried-out hulk you call a ship.”

“Don’t try to give me orders, kid. You may be the golden boy around here, but I still outrank you.”

“Damn it, Smoker—”

“Lucci and his pack of murderers are AWOL,” Smoker cuts Ace off. “You and yours are top of the heap. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Ace’s grin won’t be a pretty sight, but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t even try. He raises his head from Smoker’s shoulder, looks into the eyes so close to his own. The flame inside him ignites.

“Yes,” he snarls, and then he’s leaning forward, sinking his teeth into Smoker’s bottom lip.

He pushes close, closer, sliding his hands over bare skin soft over hard muscle. Licking his way into Smoker’s mouth. A hand grips the back of his neck, an arm drags him even closer, and Ace is tilted backwards against the desk, not in control anymore, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need to be.

Because this moment—and this man and this feeling—they’re what he wants.

(all)

And he does want. Too much.

\--

Although he doesn’t often show it, Smoker has more than a little respect for Portgas. Sure, he smacks the brat upside the ego every chance he gets because Portgas is an arrogant fuck who needs his ass kicked on a weekly basis. But ego and a devil fruit power aren’t all the kid’s got going for him—not by a long shot. Going undercover and successfully staying there and staying _alive_ takes an inhuman combination of guts, balls, brains and nerve that most men would kill for, and Portgas has it in spades.

Portgas is every epithet Smoker has ever slapped on him, all the way from maverick and smartass, up to and including insubordinate little shit. To the navy, which handed him the mera mera then built him into a flame-throwing killing machine, he’s asset and liability both. God help them if he ever goes rogue—hell on earth would take on a whole new meaning. Fortunately for the government, Portgas is loyal down to the ground and too goddamn smart for his own good. Which is why in Alabasta, it had shocked the hell out of Smoker to learn that the Straw Hat kid he’d chased all the way from Loguetown was Portgas’ little brother.

There is a fleeting family resemblance between them; the hair and the build, definitely, and something about the face… Smoker can’t put his finger on the specifics of it but the look is there. What Smoker can’t reconcile, what he can’t wrap his head around, is the chasm dividing one brother’s mental capacity from the other’s.

Monkey D. Luffy has enough guts, balls and nerve for twenty battalions. He’s also, so far as Smoker can tell, either a complete moron or a total loon. If Garp and Dragon are anything to go by, the trait runs—no, gallops—through the bloodline. And Smoker just can’t square the collective insanity of various Monkeys with his image of Portgas.

Or he couldn’t until now. Couldn’t until he deliberately invoked Rob Lucci’s shadow, and saw something flicker through Portgas’ dark eyes that took him back to a rainy Loguetown street and a tattooed nut with the power to change the world.

As Smoker watches, an expression of unholy glee identical to that other’s crosses Portgas’ face. It starts in his eyes and spreads, finishing in a broad, feral grin. Flame licks along Portgas’ shoulders; sparks fly from the ends of his hair and eyelashes, and Smoker’s logia rises in response, tendrils of white quenching red heat’s spread. In Portgas’ flame-lit grin, Smoker sees the echo of another man’s smile. He can almost feel the sweat of a long ago summer day drip down his spine. Can hear the muted rumble of an uneasy crowd and taste the coppery tang of fresh blood on sea air.

Then Portgas is pressed the length of him, leaning in _mad smile, crazy beautiful_ and just before the kid’s mouth touches his, Smoker knows he’s looking into the face of D.


End file.
